Gone
by equine02
Summary: The spirit of a WWII soldier comes to visit and talk with a man from his past.


**Hello!**

 **So, here's another short original story. Sorry, not Combat or RP or anything, but I posted it here because I figure you guys are probably the only ones interested, as it follows the same genre. Just an idea I had. BTW, I do not believe in ghosts, but I do believe that we can have spiritual visitations or visions- in this story though, it is a ghost.**

 **So anyway, hope you like it and all that! I think Saunders is jealous that I'm ignoring him….**

Scott Righton sat as upright as his tired body would allow. He was alone, in his darkened house, but for the glow of the Christmas tree, and a sleeping dog at his feet. If he listened carefully, the ticking of tiny snowflakes could be heard hitting the side of his house with the persistence of an army.

Nothing in this house had changed for years; his mantle had remained a barren and lonely place after Ellie had died, holding only one photograph, which had sparked in him the last dying embers of hope that there was something to live for.

His two daughters and their families had just left, and now he was settling into the silence. It wrapped around him like an ancient friend. There had been times like this he would do anything to go back to- when the silence was so much, and yet there was always someone there. Now it was only his own voice, which was raspy from years of screaming orders. And he was tired, so tired. Slowly, he pushed himself up and trekked over his sleeping dog to get to the mantle, and when he got there, he leaned heavily on it. Scott picked up the photograph, and held it to the light of the fading fire. He smiled, looking at it.

It was a black and white shot of a man lying in a hospital bed, and IV line running from his hand. Bandages swathed his chest, and over his eye was a darkened area where a bandage had recently been; it was a cut, and a deep one that was scarring over. That was Scott, as a young man. But the funny thing about the picture was that in it he was laughing. Not just a small chuckle, but a full out laugh. His face was lit with not pain, but strange joy. Next to the bed was the cause of this laughter, another young man with lighter hair, and an equally large smile on his face.

 _Come to think of it,_ Scott realized, _I don't remember what it was Ben said that made me laugh so hard…._

He remembered the day it had happened well, though. He remembered going into that rat's nest of Krauts… and coming out with three bullets in his chest. The photograph had been taken two weeks after, as he'd been recovering. He'd clipped it out of a newspaper, leaving the headline beneath: _JOY, EVEN IN THE HEART OF HELL._

What a life it had been. Yes, a completely different life than the one he'd shared with Ellie when he got back from Europe. His fighting life had been…. What was the word? Perhaps there wasn't one. It had been dangerous, of course, but a man's life is instinctually built on danger…. Or it was when he was young. It had been a bloody life, and too often the blood was on his own hands, even if it was enemy blood. He remembered especially the blood of the younger soldiers from his squad. Oh, how those rookies had itched for combat; they thought fighting on the front lines was like being up for bat at a ball game. Something to be excited about. Oh, well, he had to admit, he might have felt like that too when he'd been shipped over. It _had_ been thrilling to step off the boat, if not nerve wracking.

 _Guess we're all fools._ He thought, staring past the picture into the flames. They were tiny, desperate flags waving into the dark. Like so many helpless people who had reached out, who had screamed and been quickly silenced forever. Those flames were like his soul. It reached out and screamed, but nobody ever answered. He was old; and he knew it. It was just like how you know it's time for snow when the air smells cold and the north wind picks up. Just like how you know the way to your house because you can _feel_ it, and you've been there before. Well, he'd been here before. Feeling old, much too soon. It had wounded him worse than any shrapnel or bullet could, because he _knew_ it. And he sometimes hated knowing.

The last flames died in quick succession. They would bring light no more, not tonight, at least.

Scott glanced up as the lights on the tree flickered, and a sharp frigidity spread through the air.

 _Suddenly it was completely pitch black, and he was stumbling, falling. He didn't recall leaving the window open, but tiny pricks of bitter-cold snow began to land on his skin. When he tried to batt them away, he found his hands to be tied. Literally tied._

 _He had the abrupt sensation you get when you have a fever, like his skin was unbearably tight, and his cringed, rolling onto his side. He realized now that he was laying on the floor, which was cold and wet._

 _"Scott!" called a voice through the darkness._

 _A spike of fear shot through Scott's heart, and he rolled over again, this time so that he was on his back. He tried to sit up, "Aahh!" Scott cried out, slumping back the floor. He coughed. He didn't recall having such a horrible ache in his ribs, or such sickening agony in his side._

 _Suddenly there was a pinpoint of light- someone had lit a candle- which he focused on in hopes of figuring out what exactly was happening._

 _"Just a minute, I'm trying to get closer." The light came a little nearer, and when it did, Scott flinched, the brightness hurting his eyes._

 _"Ben?" He asked slowly, turning back with great reluctance. Ben nodded._

 _"I'm here buddy." Ben untied the ropes, throwing them to the side. He helped move Scott's head onto his lap._

 _"Water." Scott reached up and found his buddy's hand, which clasped tightly onto his._

 _"I'm sorry, Scott. There hasn't been water in here for days."_

 _"Krauts?"_

 _"Yeah."_

 _Scott shifted. "How bad?" He glanced down at himself blearily._

 _"There's three bullets in there. You are- don't move! It'll bleed. What I was trying to say is that you are lucky to be conscious."_

 _"Really?" Scott grimaced, "This doesn't feel so lucky. I wonder-" He was interrupted by the sound of what could have been angels singing for all he cared- American Artillery._

 _Everybody in that basement- yes, there were more of them- made themselves known with a whoop as their savior began to flush out the Krauts._

 _Scott must have blacked out, because when he woke up, he was halfway into an ambulance. He could hear Ben yelling at one of the doctors._

 _"Listen, Doc, I don' care, he's my buddy! An' I'm gonna stick with him, all the way to the end of the line."_

 _"Ben," Scott called weakly from the stretcher. The soldier rushed over._

 _"What'd'you need?"_

 _"Don' fight." Scott sucked in a painful breath, "You go on back to th' squad. Sarge is gonna…." He stared to drift._

 _Ben looked defeated. "Alright buddy. If that's what you want." He patted him on the shoulder lightly, "Godspeed."_

 _"Th'nks."_

 _That was all that was to be remembered._

Scott felt his eyes snap open. Ambulance…. Ambulance- no, he was home, he was-

Scott froze.

"My Lord." He stood in the dark, "Ben."

"Hiya, Buddy." The figure moved across the room, young and handsome as any young boy ought to be, still saturated in immortal charm.

"Are you real?" Scott asked dumbly, squinting in the dark-bluish light that the storm outside allowed into the room. It was a cheesy thing to say, but he had to know, for heavens sakes.

"Well, sure, if you want me to be. Mind if I….?" Ben gestured to a seat, and he promptly sat down on the arm of it before Scott could answer. The infantryman pulled out a cigar from his pocket and lit it. Perhaps it was the newly extinguished fire, but Scott would have sworn he smelled smoke drifting through the room.

He shivered. "So, you're a ghost then?"

"I gesh sho," answered Ben through his cigarette. He pulled it out of his mouth and blew out a cloud of smoke. "Yeah, but that sounds sorta creepy, you know? Hey, Scotty, you want to light up that fire?"

"Umm, sure." The old man stood and eventually reached the hearth, where he added several logs on top of the embers, and stuffed bits of wrapping paper from that afternoon in for kindling. He lit it with a matchstick from his pocket, and knelt there watching the flames spread. From across the room, Ben gazed at the old man as he knelt. Scotty hadn't changed much; he was still willing to do anything anyone wanted, still eager to accept strange phenomenon's such as ghost visits.

"So, uh, Scotty," Ben stood up and walked over, leaning on the mantle, "I see you kept it."

"Oh, the picture…. Hey, wait a minute, I never put it back on that mantle! How'd it get there?"

Ben shrugged. "I don't know. But you know, old man," he went on, "you are looking good! Except I got a question."

"Shoot."

"Okay, well, why aren't you freaked out… Usually people are a little more…. Excited."

Scott scoffed, giving an incredulous laugh, "Huh! Excited? What do you think I am? A kid?"

"Don' you wish, old man, don' you wish!"

"Well, no. But to answer your question, I'm not surprised because I'm _old_. And when you're old, you get to be delusional if you want to."

Ghost Ben cocked his eyebrow. "You _want_ to be delusional?"

"Oh, be quiet." He turned, still leaning in to the warmth of the fire. He smiled a disbelieving smile and shook his head. Looking up Scott nodded, scanning the other Private. "You look good, too Rockford. You look real good. Uniforms' sharp."

"Aww, kill the compliments, Righton. I'm _dead_. Dead as a doornail, extra rusty too. You think I came here so you could praise how I clean up? Anyway, I can't look, eh, sharp. I'm a ghost." He spread his arms wide, ginning. After a moment, he sobered, "But then you always were the neat one. I never liked looking sharp. Guess death did me some favors."

"Yeah." Scotty stood up. "Yeah, I guess so. Now tell me, why again are you here? You know, I appreciate it… but this is- I mean, you _are_ -"

"Okay, okay, here's the scoop. You're alone, right? I'm alone. So, I needed a buddy, see?"

"And you came to me, to the old man?"

Ben Rockford stood up. He began to stride over to where Scotty was standing.

Ben took the picture in his hands, so that it was upside-down to him. He looked his old friend in the eye, and handed him the picture. It sat between them, cradled in their hands.

"No. I came to see my Comrade. My brother in all but blood. My friend, Scott J. Righton."

They shared one moment of silence. Like a flash of lightening, it only lasted a second, and when he blinked, Ben was gone, just like when he died, fifty-three years ago- he was just _gone._

But something inside him could accept that he was gone, but that he would always be there, printed in his memory as fresh as yesterday. And he might one day accept that lightning never strikes twice in the same place.

 **And there you have it. Just and idea, and I thought I'd put it out there for you to comment on and enjoy. Thanks so much for reading! I do apologize for all the mistakes, but I absolutely love it when you guys see my stuff and tell me how much you like it: )**

 **I will be starting a new Combat fic as soon as I finish some of my other fics, which have been in high demand. Sorry Saunders, the fans need some relief, and then back to the spotlight with you!**


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